got something in the mail today from my lawyer from bk's lawyer. i've gone on and on about how tired i am of this and yet, again, i am pushed beyond where i thought it was possible to be pushed. i'm emotionally exhausted. i don't know what you call that place beyond financially exhausted but i'm there too. i'm deflated. i'm defeated. i'm in anger and through it and back to heartbreak and terror and wanting to shove everything/everyone away so that i don't lose that/them too. i'm crying my eyes bloodshot, scream-slobbering on the front sidewalk to my dad and my grandpa and the people coming home from work. i'm 25 more visitors a day, happy customers, celebrating free post office supplies with sushi, so as to imagine this away sometime before 2009. i will not carry this into 2009. i will not be married to him or file taxes with him or have my name on any legal document with him unless it is severing my legal connection to him once and for all. i will build a bonfire with that stupid married-at-20-cinderella wedding dress. this has been no fairy tale but rather a diabolical joke of karma or the universe or god-forbid, god. this hasn't been rational for so many months. it's been ridiculous and mean and it's me considering canada as a feasible possibility; i love victoria and vancouver. it is everything that is wrong with human beings. it's the girls i heard talking about me on the other side of the locker bank during PE in 10th grade. it's that money and sex tainted thing that makes people think they're more than they are. it devalues that list i made last night, the things i wish someone had told me, that is so much a pile of shit i've fed myself to get by. it's back to that hymn that caleb wrote for his sister that made me think if my latitudinal degrees had been just been a hair more precise, just a hair... it's that story i wrote in college with caleb as the name and austin as the person and r as the story where he shaved my head and drowned me so that i wouldn't die so slowly. it's the woman who called me a dike on the plane back from paris the first time. it's the first time in paris, lame as horses, virginity-thing that i would take back if i could. it's dragging him through cemeteries because i like the history and charcoal rubbings only to find out later that i'm sick and he's resentful. it's one very weak and passive man who finally caught wind of all that's right with my world - without him. it's my mom with pneumonia and my dad with violence and bleeding my grandparents when their life should be about enjoying all they worked so hard for. that time i spilled 40 gallons of punch on the carpet at daycare when i was in 5th grade; the only relief being m.s. & j.d. smacking pucks on the rooftop of the classrooms. that man i fell in love with in college, his acapella our shared birthday my ridiculously sad attempts at latin. it's the fear that everything i've written will burn in a fire, all the books, all the photos, the poems, the profound attempts to make sense of the charred scraps that remain, like somehow god chose to save them and leave secret explanations for everything. the summer we house sat for the professor while i was pregnant, the zucchini overtook her/my growth with just sunlight and two days time. it's my feeble attempt to garner support and prayers and a book deal, a book tour wherein i'll describe how 'i didn't have a choice but to write my way through it.' it's where i finally get to feel guilty for the two times last week that i bought myself a coffee so that i could get through it. it's oedipal, but only in the blindness. it's noisy and making me crave san francisco like how i sometimes must have a turkey and avocado sandwich on crusty bread, with butter and mayo. it's making me wish that i never shared that rooftop with him after we spread my grandpa's ashes in the mediterranean. it's the tiny artichokes that my dad sauteed in local olive oil and sea salt and garlic. the fuoco. the melon. the fish heads. all those tiny and tangible and terrifying and beautiful things. it's that haunted and hollow feeling that he'll carry in his face and core ad infinitum. my dream that he adopts that beautiful baby i choose not to concieve. it's me throwing away your sample ballot for the general election and the many petty and anchovies-hidden-in-the-teddy-bear behaviors i've given up being ashamed of. it is me forgiving john mayer and his buring room. that mathmatical concept of self-similarity. my throwing away bath toys instead of cutting them open and filling them with bleach. it's my logical explanation that stops her crying before it starts, but that cannot stop my own. it is 1113 posts. it's 675 days. it's $10k. it is not me. it's just a fucking letter.